


Mamihlapinatapei

by Ariejul



Series: Alone in the Fallout [2]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Angst, Deacon is dramatic, Deacon is worried, Deacon tries to help, Drinking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Introspection, Railroad ending (but it isn't really mentioned), Sole Survivor is a mess, Sole Survivor shares!, Spoilers, Survivor Guilt, is it love?, post-game shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-11-08 15:10:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11084193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ariejul/pseuds/Ariejul
Summary: Mamihlapinatapei: the wordless, meaningful look shared by two people who both desire to initiate something, but are both reluctant to do so.Julia finally feels like she found home again, but something is missing. Something she isn't sure she can ever replace. Deacon only manages to complicate things.Post-game.





	Mamihlapinatapei

**Author's Note:**

> I enjoy writing about kid Shaun more than I ought to. He's just so dang cute! He'd have a great relationship with Deacon, and I think deep-down Deacon just wants a simple, normal life but realizes it isn't going to happen. It's sad, really. 
> 
> Anyway, no beta. Please point out any errors you see.

Shaun is helping Julia chop vegetables for the stew. She smiles at how precise his cuts are, the look of concentration of his face.

“That’s good, Shaun.” She takes a pile he's finished with and tosses it in the pot.

He smiles up at her. “Thanks, Mom.”

Stirring the pot, she thinks about how this almost feels like it should. Her life is finally to a point she’s comfortable with. The son she birthed is gone, but he left her with a second chance. She can never thank him enough for that.

The only thing missing… is her husband. Nate is gone, and it’s a void she fears will never be filled.

“Mom?” Shaun asks, touching her hand.

She smiles, squeezing his hand. “Sorry, sweetie. I was just thinking about your dad.”

A troubled expression passes over his face. “I wish I could have known him. He sounds great.”

“He really was.”

Her son watches her for a few moments more before returning to his task. Julia pushes away her melancholy thoughts to focus on cooking. In no time, all the vegetables are cut and simmering in the stew. Julia absently twirls Nate’s wedding ring she still wears around her neck and allows herself to remember. She can still feel him when she touches his ring.

That’s not to say she’s alone. Since waking up in the Vault, Julia calls many friend. They all helped her find Shaun and supported her throughout. She’s ever so glad for them, but it isn’t the same. Nate was so much more than just her friend.

She wants someone to hold her. Someone she can come home to at the end of the day and trust with the most vulnerable parts of herself. But the thought of leaving Nate in the past… she isn’t sure she can. That wouldn’t be fair to anyone.

“Hey, Charmer, when we gonna have some grub?” Deacon calls, walking in.

Shaun’s face lights up at the sight of the older man, and he runs over to him, task forgotten. “Hi, Deacon!”

“Hey, kiddo, how’s it goin’?” he greets, ruffling Shaun’s hair. He glances back her way. “So, grub, time frame?”

Julia sighs. “Your legs have to be hollow, I swear. It’ll be ready soon. You’ll just have to suffer until then.”

Deacon whines, lip trembling. “B-but Chaaarmer,” he whimpers. “I’m so hungry. I feel faint.” To make his point, he fakes a swoon.

She gestures toward the door with her wooden spoon. “Go faint outside. I don’t want to have to haul your behind out of here. You’re _heavy._ ”

Dropping all pretense, he frowns at her. “No. Fun.”

Shaun can barely keep his giggles in as Julia shoos him out.

“That man,” she huffs, ushering her son back over to the cook pot. “Shaun, promise me you will not grow up to be Deacon.”

Stifling his laughter, he grins up at her. “Mom, you like him. Don’t lie.”

Her heart skips a beat. “What?”

“I just mean, you think he’s funny, right?” Shaun looks worried.

“Right. But one is certainly enough.” Julia shakes away her errant thoughts. She goes back to the stew, stirring it before dipping up a bowl. Walking to the door and opening it, she isn’t surprised at all to find Deacon standing there expectantly. “Heaven forbid I be responsible for your incapacitation. Here, you loony man.”

His face lights up dramatically, taking the bowl from her. “You, my friend, are the _best._ ”

“Yeah, yeah. Heard it before. Now, get out of here. Got other people to feed.”

With Shaun’s help, everyone gets a full belly and the dishes are washed. Julia sighs, wiping her brow. Kitchen duty isn’t an easy job, but it’s nice taking care of everyone. Hopefully, her sleep will be peaceful and free of nightmares. The restless nights are starting to take a toll on her. She wonders if this was how Nate felt when he came back from the war. 

Making sure everything is back in place, she closes the communal kitchen for the night. “Shaun, bath and then bed.”

“Yes, Mom,” he says, trotting ahead of her toward home.

She watches him, thinking back to their earlier conversation. For all she pretends, she truly does enjoy Deacon’s company, and he is easily one of her dearest friends. He has an uncanny way of making her forget when she needs it most. He’s boyishly charming and doesn’t treat her like a child, even though he must have a good 20 years on her. She’s never had to pretend to be anything other than herself.

For the longest time after leaving the Vault, she couldn't shake the sensation of eyes on her back, but she'd chalked it up to paranoia. Though now, after knowing Deacon as long as she has, maybe it wasn't. She doesn't remember when the feeling subsided, but it definitely wasn't around after clearing the Switchboard. He was almost certainly following her around in disguise before they met. Like some Wasteland guardian angel, she thinks with a snort. That fact ought to bother her, but it doesn’t. She can’t blame him for being interested. Deacon likes having his nose in everyone’s business, and she was certainly something of an oddity. Still is if she’s being honest.

But even after all this time, she knows desperately little about him.

Deacon is an enigma walking. He’s a liar by trade – _necessity_ – and it’s difficult to ferret out the truth. Not that she has ever minded his little games. Mostly it’s amusing, and his lies, while often silly and over-the-top, are never truly malicious. Lying is just Deacon’s way of dealing.

Hell, she doesn’t know his age, or even his real name. Given how often he changes his face, there is truly no way of knowing. What little she’s managed to dig up came from the bare-bone Railroad records, and she isn’t sure how much of it she should trust. But according to those records, Deacon is likely at _least_ twice her age (her Popsicle nap not withstanding), and that isn't even his first alias.

John D. was the first. Reminiscent of John Doe, given to men unknown or unnamed in the Old World. A way of erasing one’s self. Hidden meanings behind even the most innocuous things. It’s just so…Deacon. Hell, even “Deacon” has meaning. A servant to a higher power, a greater good, and that’s certainly how he sees himself. She hadn’t really thought about it before, but yeah. That’s about right.

The only other bit she knows is the little he chose to share, and it breaks her heart. A troubled youth marred in death. A new start on a quiet farm. A wife gone too soon, and the bloody revenge that followed. The Railroad and the horrors wrought upon them. She wonders how old he was and can't help but think he had to have been _too young_.

Everything he told her, it might not be all true, but it _felt_ real. She believes him, trusting her gut. It's a lesson he taught her very early on, and one she took to heart.

With anyone else, so little would bother her, but not him. She trusts him. Trusts a _liar_ hiding behind a holy name.

She sighs, the familiar urge to cry pressing behind her eyes. Perhaps Nate was the luckier of them, she muses, staring up at the cloudless sky. He isn’t wading through an irradiated mockery of the world with a pathological liar old enough to be his father. Nate wouldn’t need someone like Deacon, not like she does. He would have been strong enough on his own.

That thought does nothing to improve her mood.

Deacon falls into step at her side. “Heya, buddy.”

He would manage to show up at the worst moment. “Deacon. Hi.”

“What’s got you lookin’ like the world’s ending?” He stuffs his hands into his pockets, side-eyeing her.

Julia sighs. Of course Deacon noticed. He always does. “Just… thinking.”

“Waxing nostalgic? Gotta say, that isn’t the healthiest pass time, my friend.” He looks at her over his sunglasses, eyes still hidden in darkness. How he wears them, even at night, she’ll never know. “Believe me, I know all about that.”

“I know,” she replies softly. “I just miss Nate.”

Deacon regards her for a moment, expression lost in the shadows. “When you get the kiddo settled down, come by my place.”

Concern creases her brows. “What are you scheming this time?”

He makes a flippant gesture. “You’ll see. If you aren’t there in an hour, I’m coming to get you, even if I have to drag you kicking and screaming.”

“Okay, okay. You win. I’ll see you shortly.”

He flashes her a wolfish grin, voice dropping into a husky tone that sends shivers down her spine. “I’ll be waiting.”

She watches him walk away, tossing a wave over his shoulder. Since the fall of the Institute, Deacon’s been letting his hair grow. Its ginger hue surprised her. He’d worn that pompadour wig so often, when she pictured Deacon in her mind, it was always, _always_ with black hair. She likes his natural color though, and he wears it in a style so similar to Nate’s, it makes her glad it _isn’t_ dark.

Shaking away the memories, she heads for home. Taking a moment at the door, she wipes her eyes, swallowing down the rest threatening to fall. A smile is firmly in place when she enters. She doesn’t want Shaun to worry.

It doesn’t take nearly as long as she expected to get Shaun settled. He was already in the bath, and after a short story, he’s out like a light. Only once she’s cocooned in the safety of the shower does she allow her tears to fall. Here, she can pretend she isn’t a lifetime away from everything she lost. That Nate is only a room away, and that the Shaun she has is the one she birthed. It’s an easy lie, and so beautiful. Deacon would be proud.

Stepping out of the shower, she changes into an old white tank top and baggy cargo pants. Combing her damp hair back from her eyes, she makes her way to Deacon’s home. He shares it with Preston and Sturges, but the pair are gone on a trip to the Castle. Something or other gone wrong with the radio there. Probably. She can’t really be arsed to remember and is perfectly content to let them handle it. Preston is more than capable of holding down the fort.

She knocks, an outdated custom she can’t seem to drop. Deacon calls out and is stretched out on the couch when she walks in, a beer in hand. “Charmer! Glad you could make it. Come. Sit. Drink the night away with me.”

Shoving his feet out of the way, she sits down and helps herself to a beer. “This was your grand plan?”

“Beer always makes it better,” he grins, drumming a tune against his chest with the tips of his fingers. He stretches out again, feet in her lap. It’s something Nate used to do at the end of the day. She resists the impulse to massage them like she used to a lifetime ago, knowing Deacon isn’t overfond of physical contact. She’s rather surprised at how casual he’s being now. Has he ever willingly touched her before?

“You could at least sit up. I’m not a foot rest,” she grumbles, popping open her beer and pocketing the cap.

He huffs childishly but sits up anyway. He’s still wearing his sunglasses, and it irks her. She pushes the thought aside, focusing on her beverage. It’s getting harder to remember that it isn’t 2077, and he’s not her Nate. This is a terrible idea, but going home and being alone is worse. 

The pair drink in amiable silence, and it isn’t long before she’s feeling pleasantly buzzed. She’s always been a light weight, and it’s one of the few things the Wasteland hasn’t changed. Finishing off her current drink, she sits the bottle aside and glances to her companion.

Deacon can hold his liquor with the best of them; he might as well be drinking water for all he’s affected. It annoys her, though she doesn’t really understand why. They aren't competing, and Nate could drink her under the table. Everyone could. 

But this is Deacon, she tells herself for what feels like the hundredth time tonight. He’s rougher around the edges, and he never shows his face, not even to her. She can’t see him, not like Nate. Her husband was open and honest – _God, she loved him –_ and never hid behind lies and dark lenses. She can’t do anything about the lies, but she can do something about the sunglasses.

Mouth forming a thin line, she reaches over and snatches them off.

“Hey!” he yelps, trying to grab them. They scuffle on the couch, somehow managing not to spill beer but empty bottles topple everywhere. By the end of it, he’s leaning over her, face inches away, and she swallows. His eyes are the same shade of blue as her poor dead husband’s. But it doesn’t mean a thing. It _doesn’t._

“It ain’t fair how you always hide behind them,” she grouses, hand on his chest and fighting the urge to call him the wrong name. “Just leave them off t’nite.”

Reluctant acceptance colors his face. “Alright.” He backs off, returning to his seat and collecting his forgotten beer. She hadn’t expected it to be so easy. He stares at the bottle for a while, twirling it absently. A strangely vulnerable expression sits heavily in his eyes. “You wanna talk about earlier?”

“Huh?” For one frightening moment, she thinks he’s talking about the way her heart raced when he touched her, that somehow he noticed. _Because Deacon always notices._ She manages to look at him, unsure how being able to see his eyes makes her feel.

He hesitantly holds her gaze. “Said you were thinkin’. You wanna talk about it?”

Her chest tightens, shying away from thoughts of Nate. Nothing good could ever come from comparing the two, and she’s been doing so far too often lately. “Sorry, but I… really don’t.”

“Charmer, are you okay?” The name is wrong, but she can hear Nate in those words.

Flinching, she looks away. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

He laughs skeptically. “You’ve had a pretty shitty lot, even by Wastelander standards. You lost your husband, and you lost your kid _twice._ Hell, you took a two hundred year nap, and the whole world went to shit while you were asleep. Nobody is bulletproof. Not even me. You _act_  fine, but I know you aren't. You don't have to be so tough all the time.”

She isn’t sure how long she stares at him before she can manage an answer. Without his glasses, his eyes are so expressive. Maybe it’s part of why he hides them. “You… really don’t minx… mince words, do you?”

“Talk to me.”

Those earnest blue eyes remind her too much of Nate. With each passing moment, it’s getting harder to remember where he stops and Deacon begins. It _hurts_. It hurts because Nate will never come back, and there isn’t a damned thing she can do to change it. Brushing hair back from her eyes, she stares at her hands and starts talking.

“Sometimes… I dream that this is all just a nightmare. That I didn’t kill Shaun, or destroy the only home he knew. That Kellogg never existed, and Nate didn’t die. That he’s right beside me. All I have to do is wake up.” She takes a long drag from her beer, head swimming pleasantly. She prides herself at how little her hands shake and how natural the chuckle sounds. “That’s a good dream. Almost feels real.”

His gaze takes on a troubled look that she doesn’t want to acknowledge. “And the bad?”

“The cold dark of that cryo chamber takes me. Kellogg laughs and mocks me for being unable to save anyone.” Tears slip down her cheeks, and she doesn’t care. “And when I shoot him, it’s Nate looking back at me with his cold, dead eyes. I killed him. It was me. It was my fault.” She gives him a small lop-sided smile that is little more than miserable. “Those… feel so much more real.”

He’s silent, taking a swig of his beer. That silence consumes her, eats away at what little control she still has. The tears haven’t stopped and she’s a mess, but it doesn’t matter. He isn’t Nate, but Deacon will keep this secret, safe inside the walls of his clever mind. It still feels like weakness, bitter on her tongue. But if someone has to see it, she’s glad it’s Deacon.

He finally speaks, painful understanding rasping along the edges. “I wish I could say it gets better.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” she whispers. She stares at the brown glass of her drink, follows the faint cracks spider-webbing across the surface. How much pressure would it take to shatter, she wonders. “Like you said, I lost everything. I’m not sure I’ve managed to get much back. What I do have… it feels like a lie.”

He huffs a laugh, raising his bottle toward her. Has he always had such grief lingering in his eyes, hidden by cheap plastic? “Cheers to mutual misery.”

“Cheers,” she says. Her bottle shatters when it clinks against his, answering her question. _Not much._


End file.
